


tripping over good intentions you've walked on all your life

by whittler_of_words



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Post-Pacifist Route, Selectively Mute Frisk, Sharing a Body, violent impulses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5722459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whittler_of_words/pseuds/whittler_of_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are not good. You are not kind. Good people don't daydream about doing violences to total strangers, or contemplate pushing their friends out windows. But your family thinks you are good, and your friends think you are kind. So you will keep pretending. And you will not let them down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tripping over good intentions you've walked on all your life

**Author's Note:**

> this is a mostly indulgent fic dealing with the concept of frisk having violent/intrusive thoughts isolated from chara's influence; consequently, this work will contain content consistent with violent/intrusive thoughts, such as self harm, uh, violence?? and all that niceness.

 

The man takes his change from your hands like he’s touching something unpleasant, like he’s afraid he’ll catch something along the lines of common decency or a sense of compassion, and you’re struck with the impulse to grab onto his wrist and pull him closer so you can smash his face into the counter. It’s overwhelming to the point you’re sure he can see something in your face, because when you smile and wish him a good day he nearly drops the bouquet of roses in his haste to leave. The petty sense of satisfaction is all you allow yourself.

 _That was my fault,_ Chara says guiltily once he’s gone. _Sorry. He was a prick, though._

You sit heavily in the chair tucked behind the counter. The wall of plants on this side shields you almost entirely from the rest of the store, so you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing you shaking your head at the empty air. _‘It’s OK,’_ you sign. You don’t really need to, especially not with Chara, but the movements are distracting in a way you can almost always use. _‘It wasn’t your fault.’_

Chara’s frown tugs at the corner of your lips. You stroke the broad leaf of a Calathea as if you were petting an anxious cat. _Bullshit._

 _‘Seriously.’_ You make a face at a line of orchids. _‘Just don’t blame yourself, OK? It’s been a long day.’_

 _Well, there’s the first thing you’ve said so far that makes sense,_ Chara retorts, angry in the exact way you know means they’re joking, and you roll your eyes. Your relief is kept locked tight and hidden like it always is when they drop a subject like this. You know how much Chara likes to think they can read you like an open book, and they can, most of the time, but. There are some things you just can’t let them see.

You can’t disappoint them like that.

“Closing time,” you say out loud, standing from your chair, and smile a bit at the feeling of Chara’s sudden excitement. You’d promised you would get hot chocolate on the way home tonight. They demand whipped cream, and chocolate sprinkles.

 

* * *

  

“TODAY WILL BE A GOOD DAY!”

“Today will be a good day!”

“AND EVEN IF IT’S NOT, WE ARE TOO AMAZING TO LET IT GET US DOWN!”

“Yeah!!”

“TO NEW FRIENDS!!”

“New friends!” you crow, breathing hard. Papyrus jumps high enough on his next bound forward that he sort of breaks the laws of physics the way he does sometimes, cackling to himself. You wish you were a skeleton. Maybe then you could break the laws of physics mid- morning run, too.

You walk laps around the pond to cool down once Papyrus is satisfied you’ve been thoroughly exercised and self-confidenced. It’s still early, so there aren’t many people out, and Chara is tucked up against the back of your mind where they can pretend they don’t exist while the sky is still grey. It’s quiet, and a little eerie.

Except for the ducks. The ducks are neither quiet nor eerie.

You’re just wondering how one said duck would look being punted across the park like a feathery football when suddenly there’s a hand on your shoulder where there hadn’t been one before.

“FRISK!!” is shouted right next to your ear, and you freeze in the middle of your spin, heart pounding out of your chest. Papyrus catches you before you can be struck down by the unforgiving fist of inertia. “OH DEAR! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?”

 _‘Fine,’_ you sign, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor in your fingers, because you literally can’t admit that you were actually just about to punch his face in like wet cardboard, _‘fine. Sorry.’_

“IF ANYONE, I SHOULD BE THE ONE APOLOGIZING!” he says, taking you under your arms and lifting you into the air. You just go with it. “WHEN YOU DIDN’T ANSWER ME CALLING YOU AS I APPROACHED, I THOUGHT YOU WERE PLAYING, ER, COY? WHATEVER THEY CALL IT. WOWIE! OF COURSE I, THE GREATEST PAPYRUS OF THEM ALL, WOULD BE THE FIRST TO MANAGE TO SNEAK UP ON YOU.” He beams. And then wilts. “ALTHOUGH... I AM SORRY I STARTLED YOU. PERHAPS MY POWER IS TOO GREAT.”

 _‘It’s OK!’_ you say, and you even mean it when you smile. _‘I don’t mind. You got me good!’_

His smile grows less anxious at the sight of your own. “NYEH HEH, I DID, DIDN’T I! THEN WE SHOULD CELEBRATE!” He twirls you around a little like he used to when you were ten before setting you back down. His jogboy outfit emphasizes his dramatic pose nicely. “ONWARDS! FOR SPAGHETTI!”

“Spaghetti!” you cheer, ignoring the stare of a bewildered jogger as you head back to the car.

 

* * *

 

You may not be as good at landscaping as Asgore, but after a few years of hesitant demonstration on his part and curt guidance on Chara’s, you think you do pretty alright. Certainly enough that you can be trusted to help him garden at the school; even if complicated bush trimming is still beyond you, you can more than manage with the upkeep.

The satisfying _schlink_ of the gardening shears as they snip closed is something you can feel even through your gloves. They’re the school’s, technically, but they’re practically yours at this point. No bush shall be safe from your reign of terror. All shall fall to your totalitarian gardening regime.

You take a break halfway through, sitting on the dirt as you let your current task shield you from the afternoon sun. You flex your fingers as soon as they’re out of the gloves. As useful as they are for protecting you from blisters, you always feel like they leave your hands a little stiff after you use them. Maybe it’s just in your head.

_Schlink. Click. Schlink. Click. Scchhliink._

Open. Closed. You zone out a little to the repetitiveness of the motion. The grip of the shears is familiar, worn rubber on your palms. Kind of like a friend. But then you realize you haven’t even given it a name, so then again, maybe not.

You press your finger lightly against the blade, wondering how sharp it really is. Not enough to break skin easily, it turns out. Probably a good thing. It’s actually pretty thick, you note; almost half as wide as your finger at the base, and a thought sparks in your brain.

The thought goes something like, “how would it feel to have your finger pressed between the blades?”

It feels a lot like having two sharp things lying up against either side of your finger, it turns out. The faint pressure sends tingles up your whole arm, and you’re aware, very suddenly, of how easy it would be to just- close it. Snap it shut. Hear that _schlink_ one more time. Your other fingers are already wrapped around the handle. Would it hurt?

“ _Frisk_ ,” says your mouth, and you drop the shears on the ground.

“What?” You can feel heat rising to your face, and Chara, uneasy, suspicious.

“What was that?”

 _‘What was what?’_ You stand, switching to sign while Chara’s insistent on using your voice. _‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’_

“You’re a terrible liar,” they scoff.

Your embarrassment and shame mix together into a desperate, sudden anger that itches at your fingers, and you snatch up your gloves, hands shaking too hard to sign anymore. _If you want to know the truth so bad, then why don’t you **make** me tell you._

Chara recoils the second you snarl the words into the headspace, and the anger drains away until all that’s left is horrified guilt. You just said that. Why did you just say that.

“Chara,” you start, your voice wavering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

They say nothing. Then,

_You’re a terrible liar._

You wince.

The gloves are put back in their drawer in the gardening shed. You can’t bring yourself to pick up the shears again. You leave them in the dirt.

 

* * *

 

“SHOW IT WHO’S BOSS!!” Undyne cries. You bring your fist down. Tomato flies everywhere, staining everything from your face to Undyne’s to the wall. She fistpumps. “ _YEAH!!!_ THAT’S THE SPIRIT! AGAIN!” She slams another tomato down on the cutting board. The counter creaks. “KICK ITS BUTT UNTIL IT DOESN’T HAVE ONE!”

You net your fingers together and kick its butt until it doesn’t have one.

An hour and one shower later, both of you are enjoying a healthy serving of takeout when Undyne cackles, falling back into her seat.

“That was freaking awesome! I could really feel your passion today! It was...” She pauses, a fire in her eyes. “ _Passionate!_ Yeah!!”

 _‘And we didn’t even burn down the house this time,’_ you tease, grinning at the face she makes.

“Aw, c’mon, why do you always have to bring that up! That was ages ago! I haven’t burned even a single house down since then.”

You raise an eyebrow at her.

“Maybe one house,” she amends. “But it was cool as hell.”

Thinking back on her house back in the Underground, flame everywhere and burning it up from the inside, you kind of have to agree. Fire is pretty cool. You laugh a little to yourself at the absurdity of the statement. Chara’s amusement bleeds over to you, which makes it even better.

 _‘We should have a bonfire sometime,’_ you suggest, _‘like at the beach or something. It’ll be fun!’_

“That sounds AWESOME,” Undyne says, bringing her fist down on the table. She points a finger at you. “Next weekend! I’ll let everyone know! Be there or be a freakin’ loser, punk!”

You’re already coming up with a list of things to burn.

 

* * *

 

Your first thought is that there’s a lot more glass than you were expecting. Your second is that this’ll be awful to clean up. Your third is just an intense relief that no one’s home to hear what just happened.

Your fourth thought is: ow.

You take a breath to hiss in pain only to have your lungs taken from you. “WHAT THE FUCK,” Chara shrieks. Suddenly your legs are gone. You’re disoriented until you realize it’s because Chara’s taken those from you, too, and they dash to the bathroom, shouldering open the door. Your hand hurts. Your hand really hurts. But then Chara takes everything else, the pain distant in a way it hasn’t been for lifetimes, and you don’t fight them, embarrassed and dizzy and scared because you don’t know how you’ll explain your way out of this one. There’s a lot of blood. Chara’s hands are steady as they pull out the first aid kit.

You wince a little as they smear neosporin over your sliced knuckles, less out of pain and more because it’s kind of gross. “What happened?” they ask. They struggle a little with the roller bandage, one handed. You don’t answer. “Frisk. Why did you punch the mirror?” You don’t answer.

“Goddamn it, Frisk- talk to me!” They stamp a foot on the bathroom floor. You can tell they’re upset, because they only do that when _they’re_ trying not to punch something, and you can feel their distress hot and tight in your chest. Or maybe it’s yours. Maybe it’s both of you. They tie off the bandage. “Please. This isn’t like you.”

 _It’s exactly like me,_ you say, and immediately wish you hadn’t. They pause.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 _Nothing,_ you amend, more hastily than you mean to. _Let go, Chara._

“Fuck that!” They slam the first aid kit closed. “Fuck you, Frisk. I haven’t said anything about it because it’s not as if you owe me all your secrets, but I can tell you’ve been hiding something from me lately. I’m not stupid.”

_Stop._

“If this was because of whatever you won’t talk about, then no! I won’t!”

_Please._

“I’m not letting go until you tell me what the hell is wrong with you,” they say, sitting on the edge of the tub, and you snap.

 _Everything!_ Chara blinks, taken aback, and the petty satisfaction it gives you somehow makes it worse. _Everything is wrong with me! Drop it, Chara._

They bite their tongue, hard, and you expect them to snap back. They don’t. “What do you mean by everything?” they ask instead, patient in a way they hardly ever are. They squeeze your thigh with the uninjured hand. “Please, just. Talk to me. Don’t shut me out.”

Keeping this to yourself is hurting them, too, you realize. And it’s so exactly the opposite of what you’ve wanted all this time you’d probably be crying if you had control of the face. You think Chara can tell, and you hate it, you hate them, except you don’t, not really. You’re not sure you can.

 _I’m sorry,_ you start. _I’m really sorry. I know how everyone thinks about me. Mom, and Dad, and you, and everybody, and I know how, how you all think I’m- I’m good. How I would never hurt anyone, or do something bad if I had the choice. And it was nice because, if I just played along, acted long enough, I could pretend you were right, but I- I’m not that person,_ you say, voice wavering in a way that’s bullshit when you’re just a thought locked inside your own body. _I’m fucking disgusting, and I’ve let you down--_

“Bullshit,” Chara interrupts. “If you’re not a good person, then no one is.”

 _A good person doesn’t think about stabbing their friends just to see if they could!_ you shoot back, desperate, wishing they would just hate you already. You’re waiting for their shame to bleed over, their disappointment in who you really are to hit like a truck. _A good person doesn’t have to stop themself from kicking little kids when they get too close, or thinks about breaking other people’s things, or punches fucking mirrors--_

“ _Frisk_. Jesus, _this-_ ” Chara holds up your injured hand, “this doesn’t make you a bad person. None of that makes you a bad person. And even if it did, what the hell does that make me?”

 _But I’m not who you want me to be,_ you protest, pathetic in a way you really do hate. Chara makes a noise. In exasperation, or frustration, you can’t really tell. Probably both.

“I thought it was because of me,” they start. “I knew you got violent thoughts like that sometimes; we share a god damn brain, of course I was going to notice. But I thought it was all because of me. Fucking up your head by being here.” They curse, kicking the back of their heel into the bathtub. “I should have brought it up years ago instead of just- letting you beat yourself up over it. I’m sorry.”

Neither of you say anything for a minute. You’d sigh, if you could. _I’m sorry too._

“Whatever,” they say, in the too-dismissive way they get when they’re at a loss for words. You feel them hesitate, and then make a decision. “But I know now. You don’t have to deal with this on your own anymore. _Neither_ of us do. We can...help each other. Or something.”

You pause. _You know. This isn’t how I thought this conversation would go,_ you admit.

Chara tilts their head at the cabinet. “What’d you think would happen?”

 _I thought you’d hate me,_ you say, and they actually laugh.

“I can’t hate you, Frisk,” they say. “Don’t be stupid.” A warmth rises in your chest until you’re not sure where your love begins and theirs ends, and then the body is yours again.

 _Let’s clean this mess up,_ they suggest. You stand, a little wobbly. _The broom is downstairs._

 _Yeah._ You walk back into your room, and the shattered remains of your bedroom mirror doesn’t even hurt to look at. _Sounds good._

 

* * *

 

The sea air is cool, but your sweater and the gentle rolling heat of the fire is more than enough to chase away the chill night air. Papyrus and Undyne laugh about something you can’t hear over the sound of the waves. Alphys is sneaking pictures of them both. Asgore tends to the fire, poking at the wood to make sure the Surface-born, non-magic flames don’t go out. Looking up, you can see Mettaton lounging on top of the lifeguard tower, striking a dramatic post against the setting sun. You can’t see Sans, but you can hear him snoring.

You feed your marshmallow to the flames, pulling it out only once it’s caught fire, and watch it as it blackens. Your brain tells you it’d be a good idea to stick it in your mouth while it’s still burning. You tell your brain, _hm_. Chara makes a farting noise. Your attempt to blow out the flame ends in a splutter as you try and fail not to laugh.

“Is something funny, my child?” Toriel asks from next to you, a laugh in her own voice. You smile up at her.

 _‘Chara’s being silly,’_ you tell her, ignoring their half-hearted protests. She chuckles as she hands you the graham crackers, chocolate already in place.

“They usually are,” she teases. Chara groans as you grin, smushing the marshmallow between the crackers, but both of you quiet as you tuck yourself up against Toriel’s side. She wraps an arm around your shoulders. She never asked about the mirror or your hand, except to offer to heal it, and you haven’t said anything about it except to apologize. You owe it to her, though. You’re working your way up to it.

You let Chara eat the s’more, watching the sun turn the waves purple and gold in a way you don’t think you’ll ever tire of. You think Sans is up now, because Papyrus shrieks in a way he only does when he’s heard a particularly bad pun. The seagulls shriek back. Toriel laughs as she wipes chocolate from your face.

Yeah.

You’ll be just fine.


End file.
